Step right up to the fashion tent and get your tickets, err, press credentials to the most lackluster season ever. As a stylist friend of mine said in a recent interview, "The slut is out and the prude is in!" But while I'm all for taste over trash, it doesn't mean zest needs to fall by the waist-side. Actually, it just occurred to me that perhaps the reason for the return of top models like Jacquetta Wheeler, Daria Werbowy, and Liya Kebede on the runway was to distract my attention from the drab week-long procession that was forced upon me. As your ringmaster extraordinaire, I beg to know why demure has become the new black. God (in the form of Cintia Dicker), help me!

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2006

Ambien hangover aside, I made it to the 9 a.m. Kenneth Cole show in the Bryant Park tents. Poking fun at his socially-conscious self and the industry, six drop-down screens played skits of fashion folks' excessive use of the word "fabulous," their penchant for air-kissing, and spontaneous catwalking. The parody's jovial nature wasn't, however, a sign of the serious contemporary urban looks to come. Without an invite, I somehow finagled my way into the John Bartlett show where I happened upon Brawny the paper towel man. (Just kidding!) Burly men stepped out of the wilderness landscape onto the wood-chip coated path in rugged New England reinterpretations. Albeit hot, long johns (below) should never be worn as outerwear, and what was up with the leather slings? Next, I was off to Michael Wesetly, where models mixed with the cast members from The Color Purple appeared in "Corporate America" suits with colorful accents. Wesetly's American luxe idealism can be a tad much at times though. For lunch, I gorged on York Peppermint Patties and washed them down with Aquafina. (Plug, plug.) At Henry Jacobson, Russian roulette was the name of the game. Save for the womenswear, the risk-taker's borderline costume-y affair had a few standout pieces. But the campiness was all the more heightened by the catalog poses models struck for photographers. Calling an end to my testosterone-filled day was a sobering video montage at the Heart Truth Red Dress Collection that proclaimed, "One in three American women dies of heart disease." (With an LDL of 160, I may be next...) Forget the little black dress, this star-studded PSA opened with Lindsay Lohan in a red-hot Calvin Klein stunner (above). Garnering the biggest applause was Debbie Harry in Donna Karan, Eartha Kitt in Kai Milla, and Elaine Stritch, who belted out a dazzling rendition of "You've Got To Have Heart." Singing to a different tune was Fashion Week first-timer Dragana Ognjenovíc. One can only assume that the Serbian designer thought that an entirely black collection would go over well in the Big Apple. Sadly, it didn't. But she was the winner of my Ugliest Shoes To Ever Take The Runway award. If the chunky black loafers weren't bad enough, Ognjenovíc's models left a Hansel and Gretel trail of loose threading falling from the frayed edged garments. I could have gathered them all up and stitched an entirely new black dress right then and there. My last show, which was in the Altman space, belonged to former As Four (now Threeasfour) designer Kai Kühne. Volume was king at the sophomore effort for his Myself line. Kühne's play on proportions was odd at times but it didn't take away from his astounding craftsmanship.

The matte jersey dresses in black, cement, violet, and electric blue at Kenneth Cole. A loden cashmere pea coat at John Bartlett. A poppy-colored corduroy blazer at Michael Wesetly. Corduroy cargoes, wools suits, and a shearling car coat at Henry Jacobson. Other Heart Truth rouge sensations included Christina Milian in Max Azria, Bebe Neuwirth in Narcisco Rodriguez, Patti Hansen in Oscar de la Renta, and Leann Rimes in Zac Posen.

Long johns at John Bartlett. A patch-work blazer and random floral prints that seemed out of place at Michael Wesetly. The "America Gambler" womenswear line at Henry Jacobson. The one obvious Heart Truth flop, worn by Kelly Rowland, belonged to Beyoncé and Tina Knowles's House of Dereon. A two-piece trouser and a car wash-esque sleeveless v-neck dress at Dragana Ognjenovíc.

Angie Harmon, Alan Cummings, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's Carson Kressley, and American Idol 4 winner Carrie Underwood at Kenneth Cole. New York dandy Patrick McDonald at John Bartlett. America's Next Top Model 4's Naima Mora at Michael Wesetly. Danny Roberts from The Real World: New Orleans walking for Henry Jacobson. Audra McDonald, Michelle Phillips, Lee Ann Womack, Thalia, Nelly Furtado (and her ass), newly single Sheryl Crow, The Black Eyed Peas' Fergie, Amerie, an all-growed up JoJo, and Natasha Bedingfield walking for Heart Truth. Angie Harmon, Tommy Mottola, Theodora Richards, a preggers Natalia Vodianova, and Lauren Conrad and Jason Wahler of Laguna Beach "fame" attending Heart Truth.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2006

Exhausted from yesterday's seven-show pile-up, I decided that the one collection to attend today would be that of avant-garde designer Alexandre Herchcovitch, who displayed looks inspired by the Italian Renaissance. Models with bandaged heads took the runway dressed in somber black outfits. Toying with our moods, Herchcovitch abruptly left Goth Land behind for a quick romp through a field of flowers. This is the type of hard/soft blend that only someone like the eccentric Brazilian could pull off.

An oversized black wool military coat and a delicate pink chiffon dress.

All things floral.

Nary a star in sight…except for me.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 2006

I arrived at the tents on Sunday morning refreshed and ready for action…and I don't mean oral action. Hanii Yoon and Gene Kang, the Korean husband and wife team behind Y & Kei, paraded romantic works of art against an aural—again, I don't mean oral—backdrop of Regina Spektor's "Us" and Metric's "Poster Of A Girl." Over at the Altman Building, Rachel Comey took '80s Madonna-style leggings about as far as they should go—out of the closet and onto men. If bulge wasn't enough, Comey was trying to kill me softly with her fixation with hideous prints. Back at the tents for Naeem Khan, I was forced to do the walk of shame around the fountain. Look, as a member of the press, I shouldn't receive a "standing" card but it happens from time to time, especially when I show up with an uninvited posse. And, to add salt to the wound, I was placed in queue with a bunch of fucking rejects. One woman, who had been banned by security from entering the show, sat on the floor behind me and said, "When it's time to go in, I'm gonna crouch down and hide behind you, okay?" I peered down at the squatter, patted her head, and deposited change in her coffee cup. A parade of nobodies squeezed past us with drinks and designer-dressed toddlers in hand, a collagen-deprived Amazonian following up the rear…and I do mean rear. With no concept of personal space, the peroxide-dependent bitch bent over to chat it up with a five-year-old, her bottom directly in my face (yes, she was that tall). If you're not a celebrity, leave your kids at home. And if it's not your kid, don't talk to it. With all the pushing and shoving going on, one would think they were giving out free coke inside. Evidently it was missing from my gift bag. Look, I'm not saying that I'm too good to stand on line (okay, yes I am), but this was the kind of lunacy I'd expect at a Mobb Deep concert. Rumor had it that Beyoncé was to make an appearance—emphasis on rumor. I imagine she would have liked Khan's tryst with 18th-century France. Still, the Indian designer's crack at opulence seemed too contrived and overdone for my taste.

A silver lame goddess gown at Y & Kei (above). An avian print silk jersey lapel dress at Rachel Comey. A smoke silk strapless gown with an embroidered bodice at Naeem Khan.

Leggings on men at Rachel Comey. The brown astrakhan belted trench with metallic embroidery and the ink blue silk/taffeta embroidered cocktail dress at Naeem Khan.

Good Night, and Good Luck.'s Patricia Clarkson at Naeem Khan.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2006

Down at the Metropolitan Pavilion, I attended my first Sofada show. I had hoped that Alice Dobson's line would live up to its name. (Apparently, "sofada" is Portuguese for "naughty.") The Portland-based designer's young flirty looks are fun but lack a certain je ne sait quoi. Up at the tents, Reem Acra exhibited nothing short of sheer elegance. He fully succeeded at his goal of broadening the concept of what and how a woman can dress for the most special occasions. Back at the Altman, I discovered that I was at a hair show. That's right! I was rendered giddy at the promise of a mysteriously sexy collection under the name Evocatív. But I was mistaken. My mortified state grew worse at the sight of hairdressers lining the front row. Not until Patrick McDonald arrived did I feel somewhat justified for being there. Somehow, sitting through three acts of ballet, modern dance, and flamenco provided me with a much-needed break from the formal fashion hoopla. Next door at the Metropolitan Pavilion, Gustavo Arrango stayed true to his sensual course. The juxtaposition of a hard model like Omahyra in a silk organza dress made for a fascinating show. I ventured back up to the tents for my last engagement of the evening. My frustration grew at the sight of only two gals checking in a growing crowd for Zang Toi. (Tisk, Tisk to his front-of-house, La Presse.) The Malaysian designer broke with Acra's and Arrango's red-carpet precedent, opting for neatly tailored numbers. And then, in typical Toi fashion, came the trash in the form of ice lilac dresses.

A beaded antique silver caplet and silk chiffon dress with antique silver beads and bronze pailettes (above) at Reem Acra. A copper crinkled silk dress and a screen print silk chiffon dress at Gustavo Arrango. A black wool/nylon skirt suit with mink trim and a silver fox wrap at Zang Toi.

The Sofada collection. Zang Toi posing on the couch with his models.

Philip Bloch at Reem Acra. Miss USA at Zang Toi. (Actually, this could double as a lowlight.)

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2006

What do you get when you infuse the '80s with a blue-chip board room and an equestrian undertone? The answer is Charles Nolan's version of the working woman that surprisingly, well, worked. Not like you'll see me pairing black leggings under a skirt suit, but the clean, modern aesthetic of classics like the cardigan will hopefully be seen at an office near you.

A black taffeta shirt-dress, a pleated white cotton tunic, and a black rib knit mohair cardigan.

The double satin trumpet skirts.

I doubt NYC-based costume designer Rosemary Ponzo counts? But she should. The Liza lookalike is always dressed to the nines.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2006

I'm horny and bored! Hump day has arrived and the only person seemingly worthy of my sexual delusions is a young Olympus t-shirt-clad "model" named Todd. With his dark wavy hair and apple-bottom ass, this Detroit-native was simply scrumptious…and quite the talker. (Sweetie, you may be hot but you're not 5'10".) Placing my dirty visions aside, I realized that I was running a bit late. Foreseeing a scolding by my editor, I ran to grab my Carmen Marc Valvo seat assignment. Drawing inspiration from the "breathtaking beauty of the Arctic" must have left Mr. Valvo with a bad case of brain freeze. Either that or, like me, a steady diet of free fashion week York Peppermint Patties went to his head. The designer's omnipresent cocktail and evening dresses were, on the whole, a tad underwhelming. Hopefully, he'll thaw out in time for spring.

A black satin and lace patchwork gown (left), an ivory double face wool dress, and a mink satin appliqué ribbon strapless gown.

The hints of ice blue and cerulean in an otherwise monochromatic collection.

Surprise! Vanessa Williams.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2006

Low on energy, I ventured into the Atelier tent. While rich in color and texture, Joanna Mastroianni's line lacked miserably in execution. Oh, how I wished she solely stuck with the sublime "From Russia With Love" looks; instead, Mastroianni clumsily injected a Memoirs Of A Geisha theme. Later that day, downtown at the Altman, a familiar scent tickled my nose. Weaving my way through the crowd of Project Runway rejects (sorry, Nora Caliguri) toward the VIP lounge, I spotted the source. No, it wasn't Jay McCarroll. It was alcohol. Sponsor Finlandia had set up a bar and was filming its thirsty patrons. For a glass of the Finnish vodka, I had to look directly into the camera and exclaim, "I love Finlandia!!!" God, I'll do anything for some booze. Sip. Slurp. Sigh. By a quarter to 10, the show still hadn't started. Was I beginning to doubt ditching the Zac Posen show to be here? You betcha. Did the alcohol diffuse some of that doubt? You betcha. Ten minutes later, Hilary Duff caused minor photog gridlock. But with a wave of Kelly Cutrone's magic clipboard, the show began. Zaldy sent out strong urban-inspired looks alongside brilliantly draped dresses. But not until I spied an actual wolf stole, did my intense love affair with the self-professed party animal return.

A beaded caplet and various fur-trimmed vests at Joanna Mastroianni. A long citron/putty dress and a black hand-painted cotton jumpsuit at Zaldy.

Hey Joanna, did I mention that I'm not a lover of all things jacquard? The heavy-looking alpaca yarn trim jacket at Zaldy.

Pat Field, indie actress Ileana Douglas, singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright, the Duffster and her beau, Good Charlotte's Joel Madden, at Zaldy.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2006

In the tents on Friday, The Wild Wild West collided with the East. Using every possible form of country western entertainment known to man as their muse, Manuel Cuevas and Manuel Cuevas Jr. , the father and son behind Manuel, opened the collection with top model Erin O'Connor. My groans were muffled by the imitation Bonanza extras' screams and Johnny Cash soundtrack. I escaped the O.K. Corral and walked the line straight to Strenesse. In the run-of-show notes, designer Gabriele Strehle mentioned that her creations had a sense of quiet perfection. It could have been Jimi Hendrix's "Star-Spangled Banner" electric guitar riffs still ringing in my ears, but there was nothing quiet or perfect about it. In fact, it was rather ho-hum! If it weren't for the prime casting (when do you ever see Angela Lindvall, Missy Rayder, and Sasha Pivovarova all on one runway?), I wouldn't have been the least bit interested. A couple hours later, I headed to the Altman Building for what was to be my final show of the week. Peeps Rev, as I've come to lovingly call them, kept the mayhem to a minimum as Jeremy Scott fans took their seats. From cookie necklaces to ice cream-covered gowns to French fry sweatshirts, the cheeky Mr. Scott served up a veritable food fight right there on the runway. And, similar to the Snicker's frock he dispensed, Scott is time and time again guaranteed to satisfy!

A leather biker jacket on Omahyra (above) was the sole spotlight-stealer at Manuel. "Eat the Rich" T's at Jeremy Scott.

The gawdy "state" jackets at Manuel.

I caught up with Nick Verreos at Manuel where I was looking for his endorsement of the remaining Project Runway 2 contestants. He politely remained mum on the matter, saying that he thought everyone did a "superb" job. Hmmmm. Could a career in politics be next for this evasive fellow?

It's official ladies and gents; Fashion Week has gone to the crapper (and I'm not referring to the vile outhouse-like port-a-potties in the tents). It being the Chinese Year of the Dog and all, you would think that designers would be imbued with a keener sense of right and wrong. To quote Parsons Fashion Design Chair Tim Gunn, they better find a way to "make it work" for spring. Oh, I never want to see another York Peppermint Patty ever again.

Carry on!

Alexa Camp
© slant magazine, 2006.

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